Free Making Money by Terry Pratchett

edge of the glassware.
    Rightly or wrongly, Hubert is one of those names you put a shape to. There may well be tall, slim Huberts, Moist would be the first to agree, but this Hubert was shaped like a proper Hubert, which is to say, stubby and plump. He had red hair—unusual, in Moist’s experience, in the standard-model Hubert. It grew thickly, straight up from his head, like the bristles of a brush; about five inches up, someone had apparently cut it short with the aid of shears and a spirit level. You could have stood a cup and saucer on it.
    “A visitor?” said Hubert nervously. “Wonderful! We don’t get many down here!”
    “Really?” said Moist. Hubert wore a long, white coat, with a breast pocket full of pencils.
    “Hubert, this is Mr. Lipwig,” said Bent. “He is here to…learn about us.”
    “I am Moist,” said Moist, stepping forward with his best smile and an extended hand.
    “Oh, I’m sorry. We should have hung the raincoats nearer the door,” said Hubert. He looked at Moist’s hand as if it was some interesting device, and then shook it carefully.
    “You’re not seeing us at our best, Mr. Lipwick,” he said.
    “Really?” said Moist, still smiling. How does the hair stay up like that, he wondered. Does he use glue, or what?
    “Mr. Lipwig is the postmaster general, Hubert,” said Bent.
    “Is he? Oh. I don’t get out of the cellar very much these days,” said Hubert.
    “Really,” said Moist, his smile now a bit glassy.
    “No, we’re so close to perfection, you see,” said Hubert. “I really think we’re nearly there…”
    “Mister Hubert believes that this…device is a sort of crystal ball for showing the future,” said Bent, and rolled his eyes.
    “Possible futures. Would Mr. Lipstick like to see it in operation?” said Hubert, vibrating with enthusiasm and eagerness. Only a man with a heart of stone would have said no, so Moist made a wonderful attempt at indicating that all his dreams were coming true.
    “I’d love to,” he said, “but what does it actually do?”
    Too late, he saw the signs. Hubert grasped the lapels of his jacket, as if addressing a meeting, and swelled with the urge to communicate, or at least talk at length in the belief that it was the same thing.
    “The Glooper, as it is affectionately known, is what I call a quote ‘analogy machine’ unquote. It solves problems not by considering them as a numerical exercise but by actually duplicating them in a form we can manipulate: in this case, the flow of money and its effects within our society becomes water flowing through a glass matrix, the Glooper. The geometrical shape of certain vessels, the operation of valves, and, although I say so myself, ingenious tipping buckets and flow-rate propellers enable the Glooper to simulate quite complex transactions. We can change the starting conditions, too, to learn the rules inherent in the system. For example, we can find out what happens if you halve the labor force in the city, by the adjustment of a few valves, rather than going out into the streets and killing people.”
    “A big improvement! Bravo!” said Moist desperately, and started to clap.
    No one joined in. He shoved his hands in his pockets.
    “Er…perhaps you would like a less, um, dramatic demonstration?” Hubert volunteered.
    Moist nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Show me…show me what happens when people get fed up with banks,” he said.
    “Ah, yes, a familiar one! Igor, set up program five!” Hubert shouted to some figure in the forest of glassware. There was the sound of squeaky screws being turned and the glug of reservoirs being topped up.
    “Igor?” said Moist. “You have an Igor?”
    “Oh, yes,” said Hubert. “That’s how I get this wonderful light. They know the secret of storing lightning in jars! But don’t let that worry you, Mr. Lipspick. Just because I’m employing an Igor and working in a cellar doesn’t mean I am some sort of madman, ha ha ha!”
    “Ha ha,”